Now all it left if for him to test the weapon. Ben took aim. The ballista stood firm, its reinforced frame steady against the weight of the loaded bolt. He pulled the lever—
The shot tore through the air like a spear of death, slamming into a towering mushroom tree with a resounding CRACK. The impact shattered the trunk, sending thick spores bursting into the air as the massive fungal structure tilted—then collapsed. The result was satisfying.
Ben grinned, stepping back to examine the ballista. Perfect accuracy. The force was enough to punch through solid biomass—against Ravagers, it would be devastating.
Without wasting time, he forged a dozen more bolts, stacking them beside the ballista. These were the standard variants, but once Elvira's shipment arrived, he would craft explosive ones. The same went for the crossbow bolts—for now, they were simple grimslate-tipped projectiles, but they'd soon be deadlier.
With that done, his attention shifted toward the trash pit. The last battle had taught him a lesson—even waste could be weaponized. The Ravagers had used his own junk against him, hurling debris as makeshift projectiles.
Ben began building new structure, constructing a crude building around the pit, its interior layered with explosive talismans hidden beneath the rubble. One trigger, and he could bring the entire thing crumbling down on any fool that stepped inside. "This will make a good trap," he muttered, a smirk creeping onto his face.
A thought flickered through his mind—a strategy from his favorite game. A trap maze. One way in, no way out. Make the enemy waste as much time as possible, funneling them into a death trap. Once enough had gathered inside—trigger the collapse. Erase them all in one move. Ben chuckled to himself, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, I can't pull that off here."
Unlike AI enemies that mindlessly followed programmed paths, the beasts in this world had instincts. They weren't dumb enough to walk into an obvious death trap—
He tapped his fingers against his arm, mind racing. What if he could find something they couldn't resist?
Something so enticing, the Ravagers would ignore all logic and rush in without hesitation?
The idea stayed in the back of his mind for later. For now, there were more pressing matters. A full day had passed since he started working on the fortifications. Based on his calculations, Elvira's supplies would be arriving soon. He had two options—either rest and recover before the next battle or keep working.
Ben snorted. He didn't feel tired. Resting was pointless when there was still work to do. "Might as well finish some of them off, and get some resource." It was time to hunt.
Ben pulled out the map, his eyes scanning the terrain. He marked his target—the furthest nest from the water source. This one was the most isolated, meaning it was least likely to receive reinforcements if things escalated. He memorized the direction. Then, without another thought, he stepped off the ledge.
Mid-air, his legs transformed.
The structure of his limbs twisted, reshaping in an instant. Thick, chitinous plating formed over his muscles, powerful joints snapping into place. The moment his feet hit the ground— BOOM! He vanished in a blur.
Wind howled past him as he tore through the landscape, his body moving at speeds no normal human could achieve. His vision sharpened, every shift in the air feeding into his awareness. It didn't take long. Within minutes, he reached the edge of the Ravager nest.
Then—he stopped. Not abruptly, not with brute force, but with precise control. His body twisted mid-stride, one foot angling sharply, planting into the dirt just right. Instead of skidding, instead of losing momentum, his leg absorbed the force, his entire frame shifting with practiced ease. His muscles, now enhanced by Adaptive Muscle, compressed and coiled, distributing the energy throughout his limbs. He didn't stumble. He just stopped. His stance was loose, weight balanced, ready to react at a moment's notice. He barely left a trace in the soil.
When he created the Krell, he thought about the adaptive muscle—the ability to adjust, shift, and react mid-battle. But he wasn't going to just give it to them. He could have it too. And unlike his wings, this one has the part registered on the system. Ben simply willed it to happen. Ben grinned. He raised his pickaxe. His eyes locked onto the nest ahead.
'One. Two. Five. Ten.' His mind ran the count. 'Fourteen Ravagers total. Four Brutes. Ten standard. No Spine Ravagers.' Ben exhaled through his nose. 'Good.' No ranged attackers meant he could fight without worry of getting ambushed.
His grip on the pickaxe tightened. Then—
He launched himself forward. The ground exploded beneath his feet, sending up a cloud of dust as he closed the distance instantly. The nearest Ravager barely had time to react. Ben's pickaxe swung down.
The weapon split through its skull like an eggshell, shattering bone and chitin in a single blow. The other Ravagers snapped their heads toward him, eyes flaring, muscles tensing. Then—they charged. Ben moved first.
Another step forward—another blur of motion. The second Ravager barely had time to open its mouth before his foot caved in its ribs, sending it crashing into another.
A Brute attacked at him from the side, claws swinging in a wild arc—but Ben ducked, feeling the air split just above his head. He countered instantly. His arm twisted mid-motion, muscle memory adapting, moving with inhuman efficiency. His free hand shot forward, grabbing the Brute's throat in a crushing grip. "Too slow." With a savage heave, he slammed it into the ground.
The shockwave cracked the earth, dust billowing outward as the Brute let out a strangled roar. Ben didn't let go. The mouth on his arm split open. "Consume."
The Ravager's screams cut off instantly.
[Brute Ravager consumed. Acquired 95 biomass.]
Ben grinned darkly, his body already adapting to the new trait. But he wasn't done. Another Brute came barreling toward him, roaring, massive claws raised— Ben planted his foot, spin—and threw the first Grimslate block straight into it. The two collided, tumbling across the ground in a tangled heap. Ben didn't hesitate. He rushed forward, pickaxe gleaming.